MIA
by Mercstouch
Summary: An op in Iraq goes awry when Salem is sent by SSC to retrieve a backpack of documents from an Al-Qaeda informant.


**Basra, Iraq 1996**

Salem sprinted down a thin, bustling dirt road between two rows of rusted, tin houses, his frantic breaths labored under the black checkered, sweat dampened scarf wrapped around his head. The canvas rucksack hanging from his shoulders slapped rhythmically against his back as he ran. Behind him, furious, Arabic shouts and machine gun fire erupted, followed by frightened, civilian screams.

"Elliot!" Alice barked into his earpiece. "Talk to me!"

He growled, and ripped the scarf from his head, keeping his blistering pace. Pushing his finger against the device in his right ear, he snapped, "Target eliminated! Got the documents! Dammit, Rios, need some cover!"

He glanced worriedly over his shoulder at the armed men trailing him, and his eyes widened at the sight of the man in the front raising his assault rifle, primed for a fatal shot. A rifle fired thunderously across the shanty town, and the man's head exploded in a red and pink mist. He thudded to the sand, causing the man behind him to trip over his corpse.

"Got eyes on you, man," Rios' voice answered. "You're gonna need to take a right in about 10 meters. More coming your way from the east."

"Copy."

He skidded around a corner, kicking up dust as his boots scrambled for traction on the uneven ground. Threatening shouts and commands grew louder as the men closed in. Salem began throwing everything his gloved hands could get a hold of into the dirt road, attempting to block their path, or at least slow their pace. He spun, and shoved a street vendor's metal folding table onto its side, spilling it's random assortment of fruit, clothing, and aged electronics onto the street. To his left, a man, luckily unarmed, veered out from around the corner of a shack, and slid into a stone wall before breaking into a sprint behind Elliot.

"Shit," he huffed. A stack of wooden crates and sandbags leaned up against a short, cement building caught his eye, and he began working a new route through his mind.

"Salem, take a left in about 10 meters, then steer right in another 20," Rios ordered. "I'm headed for the rendezvous point now. Saw and Forge'll be at the edge of the city with the humvee, copy."

"Makin' a slight detour, big guy," he answered, clambering up the pile of crates, and onto the building. His boots banged loudly against the rusted metal roof with every frantic step. When he came to the building's edge, he leaped onto the next, and then the next, clanging footsteps of the enemy drawing near. He stole a glance over his shoulder, noting the two men bolting behind him across the rooftops, one toting an Israeli Galil. Bullets ricocheted off the tin just inches from his heels, and whizzed past his ear. As he jumped for the roof to his right, a bullet bit into his shoulder, and threw him onto his stomach. He scrambled at the red tin in vain, slid off the roof and thudded to the ground, his blood streaking the building's sun baked top.

Groaning, he rolled onto his back, then stumbled to his feet, dizzily fumbling for the pistol tucked in the back of his pants, the pistol he was assured by SSC he wouldn't have to use when he retrieved the backpack full of documents meant to be transported to a hidden Al-Qaeda base of operations in Syria. He probably should have known better.

After flicking off the safety, he staggered backward, aiming the gun upward. His eyes were glued to the rooftop, waiting for any flicker of movement as he crept backward, one hand clenching his bleeding shoulder. A man's head came into view. He fired, but missed. The bullet whizzed by the assailant's neck, and the man scrambled backward for cover. Firing another shot at the roof to serve as a warning, Salem returned to his sprint, zigzagging through the grid work of shacks. Though adrenalin numbed the wound just under his right clavicle, blood gushed from the hole in his torn flesh. The bullet had left an exit wound, leaving nothing to slow the bleeding. Already he could feel himself tiring. His pulse pounded in his ears, and his skin was becoming clammy. He was going into shock.

"Salem!" Rios' voice roared. "Salem, I've regrouped with Saw and Forge. We're headed your way."

"Roger." The hoarseness of his voice surprised him.

"What's your status, Elliot?"

"Flesh wound," he huffed, his lungs burning. "Right-right-sh..." His voice trailed off. The ruck suddenly felt like a bag of concrete blocks strapped to his back, and his run had slowed to a jog.

"Stay with me, Ellie. We're almost there. Take a left in about three meters. That should put you right in our path. You copy? Salem!"

"Tyse."

His entire focus was invested in that one order. He did as he was told, stumbling left into a long, barn-like structure. After entering, his cloudy mind realized it was a bazaar. Bright sunlight shone through the opened double doors on either end, and fell through the ramshackle tin and wood patched roof, illuminating the cracked concrete floor with oblong beams. People strolled along the aisles lined with wooden baskets and crates full of various fruits and spices, bargaining for lower prices with venders. Weakly, he shoved through the shifting crowd, earning him irritated glances that became fearful stares when they noticed the pistol and the blood staining his brown shirt. The vibrant colors and smells were overwhelming, dizzying. Black splotches began filling his vision before fading away, then back again. The bazaar, though partially shaded, failed to shield him from the blistering heat. His shirt, soaked with blood and sweat, clung to him, and felt suffocating. For a moment, everything went dark, and the next time his eyes opened, he was on the ground, a swarm of shuffling feet backing away.

"Salem, keep moving!" It was Rios, barely audible, but definitely him. Large black boots appeared in his vision, the dusty leather toes inches from his face. A faint smile tugged at his mouth. Rios had come for him, like he had said he would. He was safe. He would be home soon, or at least in a clean, warm hospital bed. Large hands gripped his bicep, hauled him to a sitting position. The ruck was pulled free from his back, and pain shot through the wound in his shoulder. His earpiece was removed, tossed aside. The black boots walked away, and two other sets of hands lifted him up by his underarms. He cried out weakly, the bullet hole stinging as the dragged him back to the bazaar's entrance, his head dangling toward the floor. They were going the wrong way. Why were they taking him back? His gut hitched. He raised his head, and through blurred vision found the black boots walking ahead, then travelled up the white pant leg, where a Kalashnikov's muzzle swung by the stranger's knee. His heart sank. He kicked, wriggled in their hold. His throat and eyes burned, and he shook his head in protest. Rios' name escaped his lips as a pleading whisper. Then everything went black.


End file.
